


Never To Touch, And Never To Keep

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mild Language, Post-Series, Smidge of Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor walks in on Sansa singing a song not meant for her faithful dog’s ears. One-shot. JonxSansa pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never To Touch, And Never To Keep

Sandor walks in on Sansa singing a song not meant for her faithful dog’s ears. JonxSansa pairing. Warning for language and a smidge of smut.

 

**Never To Touch, And Never To Keep**

_Seven hells I’m getting old,_ Sandor curses, clutching at his bruised ribs.

The Beauty had beaten him in the yard. Again.

He wouldn’t mind half as much if it weren’t for the Kingslayer watching, ever ready to lord over Sandor’s defeat.

Lannister is getting old too. He manages well enough with his left hand, but he’s slower than he used to be, and there’s more grey than gold on that arrogant head of his. His mind seems to be going a bit daft as well.

_Has to be, for him to be bedding down with that big bitch._

Sandor slowly makes his way towards the Stark family rooms.

Save for a chambermaid or two, the halls of Winterfell are empty. The rest of the keep is still abed.

Sandor longs to join them, his head still pounding from last night’s drink, but the thought of his dark little cell, its fire long burned out in the hearth, keeps him moving. Staying awake will not ease the ache in his head (or in his ribs) but at least he’ll be warmer.

He isn’t expected on duty for another hour. Still, he’s had enough listening to that one-handed shit. At least in watching over the Little Bird, the company is sure to improve.

There’s no guard at her door.

Sandor’s not surprised. Snow is on duty now. Most like, he is within her chambers, ‘providing counsel’.

The Little Bird calls on the bastard more and more as of late. It’s not so unusual to find the two of them walking arm and arm about the godswood or looking over plans for rebuilding the keep, heads bent close together, whispering like a pair of girls.

It chafes a bit to be under the boy’s command. He hardly has more than seventeen namedays to him. No more than a pup.

Then again, in those seventeen years Snow’s seen his share of battles and who knows what other horrors at the Wall.

Sandor remembers what Snow looked like when he first arrived at their gates. Haggered and wounded from his time beyond the Wall, clutching that damned flaming sword of his, he didn’t look much like a ‘hero of legend’. Still, Sansa had offered him the crown. Snow refused.

He respects the lad for that, at least.

Sandor takes a nip from the wineskin at his hip to ward off the cold as he stands sentry. Despite being within the castle walls, his breath comes out in a puff of fog.

_Damn this winter._

Some days it feels like he’ll never be warm again; that ice has settled into the marrow of his bones, never to be thawed. Even he might choose to face fire over this biting cold.

Pulling his cloak tighter about him, he reaches for another sip, when a muffled cry sounds from behind the door.

It’s the Little Bird.

Panic grips him as he enters, blade drawn. He scans the room, desperately looking for the danger. What he finds is no assassin.

The Queen of the North is seated at the foot of her bed, still dressed in her nightrail. Her head is tilted back, her eyes shut tight. The hem of her shift is gathered at her hips.

He’s spent more time than he’s willing to own to thinking about what lay underneath the Queen’s skirts, but his imaginings never included the Lord Commander of her Queensguard.

If his white cloak weren’t telling enough, the dark curls threaded through Sansa’s fingers tell true. It’s Snow alright, kneeling before his Queen, his mouth on her cunt.

Sandor stands frozen in the doorway, too stunned to move.

There are few things left in this life that can shock him. This is one of them.

The Little Bird and Snow don’t notice him lurking across the threshold, too wrapped up in one another.

The urge to flee wars with the equally strong urge to run young Snow through.

In the end, he remains where he is, unable to look away.

The Little Bird is a vision.

Mussed from sleep, her hair is slightly undone from its plait, fiery wisps framing her face. The neckline of her nightrail is untied and hangs loosely, exposing a shoulder. Her lips are kiss-swollen and parted.

She somehow manages to look both thoroughly debauched and as innocent as the Maiden.

Her breath comes out in audible little pants, as she tugs at her lover’s hair, arching against him.

A pale calf hooks over Snow’s shoulder, pulling him closer. Snow seems eager to oblige, one hand gripping her hip, as he holds her steady.

She cries out once more, high and keening, before leaning forward, nerveless.

“Seven hells.”

Doe-like blue eyes lock onto his, and he realizes he’s spoken aloud.

The Little Bird looks terrified.

He feels ill. He swore, after that night the Blackwater burned, he’d not be responsible for putting that look on her face again. Now here they are, her trembling with fright, tugging weakly at her nightrail to preserve what modesty she has left.

Snow is on his feet, eyes wide. He moves in front of Sansa, angling his body protectively, as if he fears Sandor might charge at her. For that alone, Sandor wants to strike the boy.

As if reading his thoughts, Snow eyes Sandor’s drawn blade. Snow’s own sword is across the room, sheathed and lying on a table by the window.

_Stupid boy._

Sandor could make quick work of carving through him before Snow’s hand even touched the hilt.

Snow seems to think the same. Instead of moving towards his sword, he takes a carful step towards Sandor, hands raised in front of him.

“Clegane! This is not what you think…“

“I know plain enough what this is, boy!”

Snow winces, but holds his ground. Behind him, Sansa is still shaking on the bed, her eyes downcast.

Sandor sighs. For her sake, he knows what he must do.

“But no one else will know, if that’s what worries you,” he says, sheathing his sword.

Snow looks at him with disbelief. Sansa meets his eyes again. The expression on her face is worse than her fear: gratitude.

_Gods, I need a drink._

She rises from the bed and moves to Snow’s side, resting her hand on his arm.

“Jon? Would you give us a moment, please?”

Snow hesitates, looking between Sandor’s scowl and Sansa’s pleading eyes.

“I’ll be outside the door,” he says, as if Sandor’s the one who can’t be trusted alone with her.

_I’m not the one who had my head between her thighs, boy._

The door closes.

Sansa stands before him, hands clasped in front of her, looking uncertain. Whatever she means to say is sure to be unpleasant.

“What you saw…what happened…” she begins haltingly.

“I spoke true to the bastard,” he interrupts, unable to bear more. “I’ll not be telling anyone, my queen.”

She frowns.

He never addresses her so formally. Not even in front of her bannerman. She is Little Bird. Always Little Bird.

But he can’t think of her as that. Not right now, while she’s still flushed from Snow’s attentions, the bruised flesh of a lovebite peeking out from the neck of her nightrail.

She gives a curt little nod, hands still folded in front of her.

“Thank you, ser. For your discretion.”

_Ever the courteous little lady._

He gives a small mocking bow, taking this as his dismissal. He makes for the door, eager to drown out this morning’s events in a flagon of wine.

Then he hears it.

Sansa is crying. Not her silent tears he’d seen too often in King’s Landing, or even ladylike sniffles, but great gasping sobs that leave her unsteady on her feet.

He’s had little practice with weeping women, but he guides her to a chair before she collapses entirely. Taking a knee, he reaches into his jerkin for the linen handkerchief tucked within. It’s a clean (mostly) so he presses it into her hand.

“Hush now girl. I said I’d not speak of it. Stop your tears.”

Her shoulders hunch forward as she struggles to breath. Fat tears roll down her cheeks, one after the other, leaving wet tracks in their wake.

“I’ve tried so hard to…I wanted to…” she gasps around sobs.

“Shh. All will be right, Little Bird,” he soothes, running and hand over her hair.

This seems to calm her some. She carries on for a little longer, but eventually the tears stop, and her breathing becomes less ragged.

“I’m just like her,” she says, almost too softly for him to hear. “Just as foul. Just as twisted.”

He follows her thoughts to another Queen and Lord Commander, another brother and sister, and all the blood and horror that followed them.

Gripping her chin, he turns her head to face him.

“You’re no Lannister, girl,” he says fiercely, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You’re all that is fine and good in this shit world. You hear me?”

Sansa is no Cersei. It’s almost criminal to compare the two.

Sansa is beauty, and kindness, and grace, and gentleness. Sansa is the light in this dark, seven-fucked world, and no amount of fucking her brother could change that. 

“You don’t despise me?” Her voice is small, uncertain, but she holds his gaze.

“No, Little Bird,” he says softly, tucking some of her loose hair behind her ear.  

She gives him a watery smile, and he knows he’s doing the right thing. He’ll bear her secrets, if it means she’ll go on smiling like this. 

She could do worse than Snow.

Snow is far from the knight of her girlhood dreams. He’s too Northern for that, too dour and reserved.

_Too much of Ned Stark in him._

But Sandor seen enough of Snow to know he’d lay his life down for Sansa’s without a second thought, and that is worth more than any of those Southern anointed cunts with their painted armor and blasted vows.

Sansa deserves a good man. She deserves happiness. Snow can give her that.

She folds his handkerchief neatly and holds it out to him.

“Keep it,” he shrugs, moving to stand.

“Thank you, ser.” Her courtesies are back, but she’s smiling so sweetly, he can’t bear to chide her.

Snow’s waits outside, looking anxious. Sandor smirks at him, and nods his head in Sansa’s direction.

The lad moves past him, to Sansa’s side, reaching to brush away her tears. The pair of them stand close, heads bent together, murmuring too soft for Sandor to hear. Lover’s words.

_How did I not see this before? Gods I need that drink now._

Sandor clears his throat. Sansa and Snow’s eyes fly to him, each taking a somewhat guilty step away from the other.

“There’s a bar on your door, girl. Use it.”

He closes the door behind him and heads off to find that drink.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an anonymous prompt ladyannabethstark put up for grabs on tumblr: the Hound’s reaction to Jon/Sansa. Probably not what the anon had in mind, but this is where the muses took me.
> 
> I feel like the parts of my brain that ship Jon x Sansa and love the Hound exist on entirely different planes from one another, and I was really skeptical about pulling this off, but I gave it the old college try. Besides writing the Hound is too much fun, and this gave me an excuse to put off working on my WIP. Hope you enjoyed!


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